


Help Wanted: British Government Missing

by amani101



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Canon-Typical Violence, Consensual, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Forced Drug Use, Gen, Hurt and comfort, M/M, Mild Language, Sibling Incest, Top Mycroft, Virgin Sherlock, holmescest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-04-26 18:53:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14408376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amani101/pseuds/amani101
Summary: Mycroft Holmesisthe British Government, until one day he isn't. With enemies too many to count, will Sherlock Holmes be able to find his brother in time?





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I just discovered Holmescest. Um... odd place to start. What I mean was, I had seen Sherlock(TV) miniseries multiple times, but had only discovered this fandom recently. So after reading so many wonderful stories about them, my muse began formulated this plot that just wouldn't let me be. So here goes my foray into taboo territory. Beyond the subject matter, please excuse my grammar beforehand. I have no Beta-reader to rely on. Also, I am American and have only been to England on-off throughout the years. If you add my total time there, I would say about half a year. So please excuse my word choices, I shall try my best to research the appropriate lingo. Suggestions/corrections are welcome. Please enjoy.

In the bowels of Whitehall, within the well protected confines of a Cabinet Office, Lady Elisabeth Smallwood finds herself at the breaking point. She would not be cowed by the suffocating silence of their lack of intel no more and spoke to the room in general.

“I think its time to admit it,” she declares from her seat with a calm she hasn’t felt in weeks. 

Her fellow peers exchanged a mixture of perplexed to wary glances before Sir Edwin clears his throat only to patronize politely, “And what exactly are we admitting to, Lady Smallwood?”

She ignores the condescension and replies in kind, though her demeanor remains the same when she points out, “Obviously the list of suspects are too long. We need an expert.”

Yet, Sir Edwin persists to follow the same vein, “With all due respect, we have our best people on it. Our tech engineers are screening all the security footage as we speak. Our fives and sixes are scouring for any scrap of information regarding his whereabouts. Whether it is the Iranians, North Koreans or Russians, we will find him.”

Despite her growing weariness, she remain steadfast, “Very well. I suppose you, Sir Edwin, will have no qualms explaining this to the Prime Minister and her Majesty tomorrow?”

“Now, see here—”

She doesn’t wait for his immediate spluttering objection to be voiced further before continuing helpfully, “I will inform his assistant to transfer his current diary with them as well as any other pertinent appointments to yours. I’m sure you will do more than adequate job filling in for his shoes in the interim.”

Red faced and finally cotton on, Sir Edwin scans his peers for an ally and was met with a few wry smirks. Retreat seems to be his best maneuver when he offers after another round of offended throat clearing, “What would you suggest, Lady Smallwood?”

“Sherlock Holmes,” she said without fanfare.

The small commotion garnered renew Sir Edwin’s drive as the voice of opposition when he scoffs, “England will not fall without a Holmes running it. Besides, he’s barely tolerable with his brother holding the leash. What makes you think he’ll heed our beck and call?”

With her victory at hand, Lady Smallwood allow a small upturn of her lips when she replies, “He will not decline our offer, not when the game is finding Mycroft Holmes.”


	2. It’s all fun and games until someone goes M.I.A.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which it’s like any other day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I have done right by their characterization. Constructive criticism much appreciated. Please enjoy.

John Watson arrives at 221B Baker Street with Rosie sleeping soundly within her papoose. Not wanting to wake his precious bundle, he quietly opens and closes the door only to be assaulted by the thundering footsteps descending the stairway. His quick turnabout and intended lecture was immediately deflected before he makes it pass the first utter when John was swiftly push around and manhandle until his precious bundle was lighten and taken by none other than Sherlock Holmes. The resident self-diagnosed high functioning sociopath, aka the famous hat detective, aka his best friend, aka Rosie’s godfather.

“Bloody good timing,” Sherlock stage whispers by way of greeting. He then gently taps on the door of 221A and hands over Rosie, papoose, nappy bag and all upon opening to Mrs. Hudson without a by your leave before stage whispering again, “Let’s go.”

Mrs. Hudson’s nimble facial acrobatics began with curious to surprise to alarm to delight until it finally settled on one of acceptance when she shakes her head at both of them and closes the door with a soft click, unlike her usual protesting door slam. Also within that short duration, John resigns himself with a sigh and a look well-worn to the dictates of his friend for the remainder of the evening.

He follows Sherlock out the door and queries as they stood at the curb to hail a cab, “Were you…actually waiting for me?”

Sherlock doesn’t answer him immediately, too occupied with scowling at his mobile to begin with. So enraptured was he, the detective doesn’t even bother to look up as a black car pulls up. Instead he automatically opens the back passenger side door and plops himself down with an address thrown at the cabbie. It was only when John was seated, the door closed, and they drove off did Sherlock drew his attention from the device long enough to provide an answer several minutes pass due, “Of course not. A landlady was found dead beneath her balcony three stories down. No force entry nor signs of foul play.”

With the small talk over and a new case beginning, John squares his jaw and takes a gander at deduction himself.

“Suicide?” the Captain throws out knowing it won’t stick.

“Nope,” replies the consulting detective in quick repartee.

John’s lip quirks up as he glance out the window briefly afore announcing, “Course not, would be too easy for you to leave the flat.”

He then turns to eye Sherlock’s smug demeanor, “Come on, what is it then?”

Eyes dancing with pure mischief now, the detective offers up the first clue, “She raised the rent several weeks ago.”

“Ah, right. Raising the rent, committing suicide; makes no sense at all,” muse John with mild sarcasm.

“Precisely,” said Sherlock with enunciated conviction.

Upon hearing that, John wonders whether he’s missing something and goes fishing for a second clue, “Sounds like a five at best. What’s the hook, Sherlock?”

Ever the drama queen that John had labeled him to be, Sherlock times his clever reveal just as they arrive to the scene of the crime, “Within the past half hour, all scathing reviews including death threats posted by all her tenants the last month or so on Twitter, Facebook, and what have you, has been deleted. Unfortunately for them, I saved them all.”

* * *

“Well that was certainly a waste of time,” declares Sherlock as soon as they finished the tour DI Greg Lestrade walked them through from the corpse below then up the stairs to the flat above. The Detective Inspector was about to escort them to interview the quarantine tenants when he stalled his tracks, stricken by that announcement.

Given Sherlock’s previous excitement, John thought it was a very strange thing to say without observing and hearing all the facts first. Never mind the appalled look on Greg’s face upon hearing that. Sherlock practically shouted as if he was the one offended. He had his own suspicions of course. After so many years he can boast of learning a thing or two. Be it from clever detectives, the British Government, consulting criminal mastermind or long lost psychopathic sister of a best friend.

John cuts in rather patiently, “I thought you said it was at least a seven?”

“Oh, please. Even Greg can connect the dots from here,” scoffs Sherlock offhandedly, enrapt by his mobile once again.

“I can?” says Greg lightly, not quite sure whether he’s flattered by Sherlock’s continued remembrance of his name or the obvious insinuation of his lesser IQ. Considering this scenario was just like old times, his jovial manner prevails as he waits for the consulting detective’s grand reveal to his team.

A minute pass, then two.

Only, nothing happen. Rather, Sherlock’s mounting agitation over the contents of his phone made him miss his cue. He looked paler than normal. In fact, the clever detective seem lost for a moment before he clumsily stows his phone away and refocus on the room at hand. Though perhaps, less focus more like as his brow creases in confusion at the faces staring back at him. Sherlock opens his mouth but no sound came out.

Sergeant Sally Donovan, who’s always lurking nearby and not caring two straws of Sherlock’s wellbeing, looked ready to pounce with a derisive remark when John immediately intervenes, “Save your breath to cool your porridge, Sherlock. I think I got this.”

Sally transfers her disdain to John, a raised brow clearly mocking his abilities.

Given he’d solved many cases on his own merit, Greg noticed Sherlock’s odd behavior as well and decides to play along, “Be my guest.”

Sally shakes her head and literal braces both hands on her hip for the oncoming drivel she expects from the freak’s partner.

Too much of a professional to have cold feet at this juncture, John clears his throat and tries on his version of clever for the first time. He diverts their attention to the flat at large, pointing at references to his observations, “There, there, and there! The pile of junk throughout the rooms: two toasters, four fans, twenty or so silk scarves, and worn clothes not her size? Most likely, discarded or stolen; nicked from her tenants no doubt. Her own furnishings are dated, broken or need repair. She’s a hoarder, greedy but stingy as well.”

John steals a glance at Sherlock, in part out of worry yet found a nod of encouragement when his friend had regain his composure during the short diversion.

“What does all this have to do with her murder?” cuts in Sally impatiently.

Building a bit more confidence, John carries on, “Now, now. I’m not done yet.”

He signals them to follow him out to the balcony, where stacks of broken pottery large and small, airing laundry, and other knickknacks litter the small opening.

John nervously points at a few objects as he continues, “So, she dries her laundry on the balcony and um…was just collecting her erm—lady things when she notices something that caught her fancy…”

He points to their right, at the adjacent balcony. There, blowing in the breeze towards them at an off kilter angle, was an embroidered Gucci labeled silk scarf, stretched beyond useable. That, along with the few items that were there hanging, were either wrapped or tied in an intricate knot upon its hanger and was further fortified by stainless steel clothespin ensuring its secure attachment.

John waves at the largest upended broken pottery closest to the other balcony before pointing at the evidence on the floor. There it was. A shiny metal clothespin stood out like the ugly duckling amidst the cheap pink plastic the landlady uses.

He then infers, “She obviously had done it before and her neighbors either caught on or suspected foul play. So, this time around, the landlady had to work a bit harder to pilfer things. She overreaches, probably loses her balance and tips right over.”

Greg considers the idea while Sally remain skeptic. As for Sherlock, he looks like a proud papa at a child’s first recital. John shakes his head at the notion and concludes with, “You did say there was no sign of forced entry or an altercation.”

“And the evidence?” prod Sally.

“Erm…” John was stump at that one and look to Sherlock for help.

“You’ll discover red powder beneath her slippers. She obviously prefers to use that red one there. Her repeated usage of that pot has refined the chipped pieces. You’ll also find traces of it on the flat of the pot and the railing when she placed her foot there for leverage. Furthermore, if you bother to look at the balcony to our left, the tenant has done the same and uses wood clothespin to secure her garments. There is a ring of red powder on that side of the balcony as well and three snapped off pieces of wood. Her fingerprints, if your lucky, could be found on the scarf. If not, oil residue from her hands may be a match via transference. Her neighbors can corroborate for their stolen goods,” chimes in Sherlock.

He then turns to Greg and said with a flourish, “In fact, one can say, her neighbors set up a trap and she _fell_ for it.”

Simultaneous groans emitted from Greg and John. Sally merely rolls her eyes before motioning the rest of the investigative team to take pictures and gather the evidence the freak pointed out.

“Pity though,” starts Sherlock and pauses for dramatic effect as everyone stops what they’re doing to see what clever thing he has to say next.

John shakes his head at the captive audience and make to exit. Thus, he only heard the title end as it fades out when Sherlock said, “A conspiracy murder by tenants makes a bet…”

The doctor bypass a few sentinel constables on the way down and waits for Sherlock at the second landing. He didn’t have to wait long. Like clockwork, Sherlock’s longer limbs make quick work of the steps and they both descended the rest of the stairs side by side.

“Well done, John. Why don’t you open up your own consulting firm? You can be my main competition,” said Sherlock showing no indication of what bothered him earlier.

John was tempted to ask but has learn throughout the years when and how to do so. Wading in requires the perfect opening after all. So he perpetuates the mood his friend was striving for, “Ah, no. I have a day job. It actually pays me to be there.”

They had exit the building and reached the streets when John continues, “Besides—who _are_ you checking on?”

Perturbed by this even stranger than normal behavior, John forgo niceties and went for broke, “You’ve been checking text alerts and even scrolling through old messages religiously, haven’t you?”

Looking like a kid with his hand caught in the cookie jar, Sherlock put his mobile away and comments drolly instead, “Your observational skills has improved significantly, John.”

“Flattery isn’t going to distract me, Sherlock,” admonish the doctor as if to any one of his patients.

When Sherlock refuse to come clean, John then adds, “Is it a hot date? Have you finally made up or moved on from Janine?”

Sherlock readjusts his Belstaff coat before waving off that stupid conjecture, “Janine was a means to an opening. I used her to get to Magnussen, she sold me to the tabloids. End of story.”

Upon the heel of that lengthy dissuasion, John narrows his eyes on the target, “Hedging, Sherlock.”

In recognizing that all too familiar dogged tone, Sherlock finally relents on the mystery that had captured his attention all evening, “It’s Mycroft, if you must know.”

Surprise by the mentioning of the other Holmes brother in a long while, John states the obvious, “Oh, big case.”

“No.”

John tries again, “Your sister?”

“Nope.”

“Family gathering?” That last was a stretch but then again, John couldn’t fathom what else Mycroft related could it be, “Just tell me already.”

Although sulking in general was unbecoming of any adult or person for that matter, on Sherlock however, John finds it rather endearing especially when his normally clever friend are at lost for words.

It took them hailing another cab and on the ride back to Baker Street for Sherlock to open up, “We…have been conversing…cordially? Yes, cordially via text for three months now despite his aversion to this particular mode of communication. I had thought—that perhaps we could—”

Then Sherlock releases a frustrated huff before deriding his obvious show of sentiments, “Never mind. I had texted his PA instead and received a rather cryptic reply earlier. ‘Lord of Misrule no longer presiding. Evening cancelled.’ For a moment, I feared the worse before I remembered. Old habits die hard. The more things change, the more they stay the same. Yada yada; so forth and so on.”

First and foremost, that was news to John. Ever since the whole Eurus debacle, the good doctor had heard little of Mycroft. The last time he could recall was when Sherlock mentioned in passing that he was to visit Eurus at Sherrinford for a Holmes family reunion. Thus, to be told differently and repel with such scorn now meant more to Sherlock than his friend was letting on. Certainly, the brothers had their ups and down throughout the years he’d witness. Yet John was happy for them that they had manage to bridge their old grudges and animosity somehow. That is, until Mycroft screwed things up.

And speaking of the devil, just as their cab pulls up a bit far from the curb of 221B, John notices the three unmarked cars and half dozen men in tailored suits securing the perimeter.

After paying the cabbie, they exit the vehicle and was immediately approached by two of them.

“Not Mycroft?” John queries in all seriousness as his fight or flight instincts kick in.

Sherlock’s response was a frown marring his brow.

The suited men escorts the duo to a heavily tinted car. It didn’t surprise John one bit that Sherlock knew who it was before the window rolls down completely.

“Lady Smallwood,” greets Sherlock with false cheer.


	3. Form Fit Function

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the offer was made.

“Good evening Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson,” said Mrs. Smallwood.

 

 

While John gave a nod and a stammered reply to someone he’s heard about yet never met, Sherlock’s response could not be categorized as anything remotely pass social muster.

 

 

“What brings you to this part of the neighborhood? Another scandal? In flagrante delicto? No? Someone in need of dispatching, perhaps?” quips Sherlock in sharp succession to mask the foreboding shiver that course through his body. Tension seeps in, then was succinctly kicked to the curb. He has no use for such superstitious premonition. There was no such thing as coincidences, especially on the eve he was supposed to meet with his brother. Whatever it was should prove more interesting than the case before last.

 

 

Lady Smallwood’s measured breath spoke of learned patience when dealing with the consulting detective. She ignores his taunts and invites pleasantly through the roll down window instead, “Take a drive with me, Mr. Holmes.”

 

 

Not wanting to seem too eager, Sherlock pretends ignorance and stretches out the charade, “Oh, are we going somewhere?”

“Only if you accept my offer,” she counters in equal measure.

 

 

Genuinely having too much fun, Sherlock gasp in mock horror and pulls back as if affronted, “How forward of you! To proposition me in front of my own home no less.”

 

 

And catches himself from grinning when he hears a choked sound from near proximity.

 

 

Lady Smallwood was all smiles and rewords her request, “I only ask that you hear me out of its entirety before you make your leave.”

 

 

She then purposely cast her gaze to the nondescript manila envelope lying on the seat next to her afore looking back at him expectantly. Sherlock perks up and drops all traces of his good humor when he sniffs pointedly, “John comes with me. Either you disclose it to both of us now or I tell him later. I do dislike repeating myself.”

 

 

After a brief hesitation, Lady Smallwood acquiesces with a nod and Sherlock pulls the door handle open and slides right in across from her. John takes the seat next to him and was preemptively caught mid motion from closing the door by one of her suited lackeys.

 

 

John transitions from one awkward moment to another when he said his thanks to no one in particular before extending a hand to their host, “A pleasure to meet you, Lady Smallwood.”

 

 

Only to receive a polite nod with his arm left hanging. He clears his throat and reverses the motion into scratching the back of his head instead. The car ignites and soon takes off from the curb.

 

 

Without preamble, she hands over the envelope to Sherlock who immediately opens it. Out spills a dozen photos, some varying in resolution of one Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock’s brow furrows in silent query upon sighting the date and time stamp. He flips through each of them quickly, only to return to the ones without his brother, lingering longer and pouring through them at different angles.

 

 

It was clear, from what John could observe indirectly from his position that the photos were taken in the span of several days judging by the varying outfits in each one. Furthermore, all were taken in the day time, from different CCTV cameras to be exact. Beyond that, John was stump as to the reason for the surveillance of Mycroft taking a stroll around town. Albeit the clothes were out of character. John would have never guessed the ever natty dressed elder Holmes would own such mundane clothes as news hats, a sports coat with elbow patches, turtlenecks and fitted jeans. In fact, Mycroft resembled one more from academia than a bureaucrat. Admittedly, the blatant disguise has John’s thoughts jump to one immediate conclusion. It boggled the mind in considering _the_ British Government may be in some sort of hot waters with the very country he ran. John hopes for Sherlock’s sake that his observation as always, with the exception of earlier, was off the mark.

 

 

Sherlock scoffs out of nowhere and admonishes while still analyzing the photos, “Unfurl your brows, John. It’s unbecoming. The conclusion you arrived at may be warranted for the goldfishes of the world, but do not project them on my brother.”

 

 

The consulting detective than rudely hands off the package to his friend and eyes Lady Smallwood with his piercing gaze. To whom, despite her earlier request, remain serenely nonverbal. He scoffs again and expounds on his deduction per usual, “Lady Smallwood would not have taken the trouble to consult me were my brother be labeled as a double agent. He’s much too resourceful to demean asking me for assistance to flee the country. The very thought is insulting. Us Holmes, as my brother and his predecessors would say, are loyalist to the crown and the good of England. Now, as to the surveillance. Mycroft detests legwork. What horrid entity possess him to even make such an effort?”

 

 

John was rather perturbed by Sherlock’s unwavering belief in his brother. It was a sentiment rarely spoken.

 

 

Taking her cue, Lady Smallwood begins her tale, “Three weeks ago, we received a cipher from an old associate long expunged from record. They requested a meeting with Mycroft and Mycroft alone. They insisted a public area and no surveillance within the perimeter. Your brother understood the risks and took pains to assure us the legitimacy of the request. He was adamant that we abide by the rules.”

 

 

Clearly agitated by this news, Sherlock glance distractedly out the tinted windows afore stating tersely, “A paranoid spook from the past lured my brother into a trap. Am I missing anything so far?”

 

 

“Right on all counts,” said Lady Smallwood who failed to staunch the glimmer of respect and admiration reflected from her eyes. Though he may be a nuisance most times, no one can fault Sherlock Holmes for being useful.

 

 

“Wait, Mycroft’s been kidnapped!?” John nearly shouted. Feeling downright offended for a person to whom he rarely had any warm feelings towards except that one time in Sherrinford when Mycroft had the decency to offer his own life. John just couldn’t believe how calm the elder Holmes’ so-called colleague and his own flesh and blood is taking this all in. Wouldn’t the whole country be in an uproar by now to look under every nook and cranny to find him?

 

 

“Don’t be absurd,” said Sherlock in all seriousness, “He’s hardly a kid.”

 

 

John gawps at his friend in horror for that single takeaway of what he brought up. The lack of concern was appalling. Meanwhile Lady Smallwood follows their byplay with uncontainable humor and chose to remain silent at present.

 

 

Sherlock shakes his head and states with a tinge of exasperation, “My brother would have left a trail, obviously. He wouldn’t put himself at risk without precaution. Lest—”

 

 

The consulting detective cuts himself off and ponders his next words carefully, “Lest he failed to account for the unaccountable.”

 

 

Satisfied with his own assessment, Sherlock ignores the eye roll from John at his cryptic word choice and turns his game face on to Lady Smallwood, “You came to me for help. What is your offer?”

 

 

“Sherlock! You can’t be serious!? He’s your brother!” chides John for his friend’s lack of familial affection. This was not some stranger being a pawn in Moriarty’s old games. The stakes are higher probably given what secrets Mycroft holds.

 

 

Sherlock promptly ignores the noise thrown at him and waits for Lady Smallwood’s reply.

 

 

The pause following John’s outburst lingered for another minute while she appraise the consulting detective with a slight tilt of her head. Neither gave any indication of their inner thoughts on the matter beyond what was discussed. After another moment, she smiles and informs the detective of the terms, “During your investigation, you will have limited access to Mycroft’s files pertaining to this case, his office, and his PA. You may form a team, of your choosing, to assist your endeavors. Furthermore, we claim your full cooperation and consultation on duties afforded to the Holmes Estate within the interim. All financial expenditures rendered in service shall be covered and a sum of £100,000 be transferred into your account upon your successful live retrieval of Mycroft Holmes.”

 

 

She allows a smaller pause to take shape before offering her hand to shake upon stating, “Do we have a deal, Mr. Holmes?”

 

 

The dangerous glint reflected off of ice blue orbs spoke for itself.


	4. Conviction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A glimpse of Sherlock’s thoughts.

The signs are all there. Narrowing gaze, flaring nostrils, a slight tilt of the jawline, squared shoulders, and the ever telling taut fists. John, the soldier, is gearing up for battle. Thankfully not of the physical kind but a tiff is certainly imminent.

 

Not wanting to spoil his current excitement just yet, Sherlock preemptively applies a countermeasure.

 

Step one: avoidance.

 

After vacating Lady Smallwood’s unmarked black sedan, Sherlock takes a moment to straighten his armor and readjusts the collar of his Belstaff. John stands at attention beside him, most likely waiting for Sherlock’s coconspirator to leave before airing out his grievances like so much dirty laundry to the masses. Not much for public displays of antipathy, Sherlock steps forward at a steadfast pace and was bursting through both doors leading to his flat without further ado. A few beats later, he hears John gave chase, stampeding up the stairs heedless of the racket he was making. In so doing, alerting Mrs. Hudson of their return and no doubt waking up Rosie in the process. Just another sign of John’s escalating need to ‘talk’.

 

Even without a quick scan, Sherlock knows with a certainty of John’s widening eyes and heaving chest just by the sound of his friend’s billowing breaths, prompting the detective to employ step two: create a diversion.

 

He swipes up his violin from his preferred seating. Then proceeds to orchestrate an unfinished piece by the window whose arrangement has been stuck in his head for weeks. Since Mycroft happened actually. He stops abruptly at the realization. The rest between notes was not intentional. He omits from jotting it down on the score.

 

“Sherlock!” cuts in John as the opportunity presented itself, undeterred and full of discord to the composer’s opus.

Sherlock makes a face and transitions to step three: parry and deflect at will.

 

“Yes! I’ll have a cuppa. And don’t forget the biscuits!” he states with a firm nod atop his Stradivarius and even shoos John with a flick of his bow to hurry it up. His guise of tuning the strings not fooling anyone.

 

John cracks the window of opportunity wider lest Sherlock decides to withdraw into his mind palace as the next course of action. His clever friend barely got two notes out when John rudely speaks above volume, “Of all the asinine feats you’ve pulled, this has _got_ to be the most egregious!”

 

Sherlock’s brow furrows in consternation, no doubt miscalculating John’s resolve as the doctor steamrolls his point further, “Mycroft is missing and here you are, capitalizing on it! Your own brother!”

 

Unimpressed by both the interruption and the repeat chorus, Sherlock skips to step five: bludgeon the opponent without remorse. His weapon of choice, full tilt diva.

 

He gently stores his violin away, lest it be collateral damage and returns with verbal jibes armed and ready. Sherlock, eyes piercing bright with manic scorn, proceeds to meander about the flat, expectorating harsh truths wherever he goes, “I am a consulting detective! That’s what I do! Or have you forgotten? You _know_ how many times that lazy arse brother of mine drops by to freeload on cases.”

 

Sherlock then exaggerates Mycroft’s expression and posture before declaring, “Always pointing out how _smarter_ he is but couldn’t be bothered. Well now, _the_ British government _is_ my case! I can finally lord _that_ over him for eternity! So what if I’m capitalizing on it, call it my finder’s fee.”

 

Belligerent to the end, for John has been cited by many good authorities including the famous hat detective himself as the moral compass of said friendship, he rejoinders scathingly to match the other’s tone, “So _professional_ of you. I hope you can live with yourself when this case closes one way or other. Need I remind you of Norbury?”

 

Sherlock flinches back as if physically assaulted. He had only told Mrs. Hudson of the significance of that word. What it meant to him, what it will remind him of: a check and balance of his own hubris. Yet, John utilize it to its full effect. Not because Sherlock told him so, but because the man was there himself. That word, that name, that person took Mary away. It was Sherlock’s greatest failure not just as a detective but as a friend and guardian for Mary and Rosie. His vow irretrievably broken.

 

Seeing the effects of his words, John’s contrition wasn’t enough for him to stop his lecture. He needed his next words to hit further home. So he presses onward, though his voice gentles to soften the blow, “This isn’t a game, Sherlock. Your brother’s life is at stake.”

 

The silence that fell between them was deafening. Not even all the creaks from the flat and downstairs or the road noises outside could permeate the suffocating weight of it. It was unbearable, yet John didn’t know what to say or how to break it. For the expression on Sherlock’s face, or rather, the lack of any emotions on it was alarming.

 

When Sherlock suddenly lurches forward, John prepares himself for an attack, thinking perhaps he might have gone too far in using such a sore subject between them to get his point across. However it needed to be said and John wasn’t above using such an advantage. He stood his ground firmly and felt off kilter when Sherlock walks right pass him and out the door.

 

It was shock that mainly held John back. Not because he misjudged Sherlock’s retaliatory nature but because of the expression that finally settle onto his friend’s demeanor. Of all the response he reckoned Sherlock would exhibit, unadulterated wrath was not one of them.

 

“God help those poor bastards,” breathes John to the empty flat.

* * *

It was long pass midnight when the silhouette of a familiar figure grace the elegant halls of the upscale Holmes estate. Without its current owner though, the staid décor and drafty rooms felt hollow and cold. Sherlock never cared for it much and finds the prospect of inheriting it revolting. Yet here he is, unwilling to flee the premise. A shiver racks down his spine despite his armor firmly secured. He blames it on the chill of the night’s air and decidedly steps pass the threshold and closes the door with a resounding thud. The ensuing echo only stand to emphasize the emptiness throughout.

 

He should leave and yet his feet propels him forward to shut down the silent alarm system with five seconds to spare. Sherlock doesn’t bother to shed his layers and hang them up properly. After all, there was no harpy of a brother to comply any social norms for. He doesn’t bother with the lights either. Knowing the layout by rote, he finds himself haunting the halls and visiting each room as if to verify something he already knew. He couldn’t stop the compulsion though nor heed the escalating pulse beat as the final door to his brother’s chambers grew near. Surely it was all a test? A joke on Mycroft’s part to even the score for the clown incident. Through those doors he will find his brother sleeping soundly and will wake up mocking him for his failure to see through the charade.

 

His hand pause at the knob then hurriedly completes the motion a second later. The mahogany door creaks loudly in the absence of other sounds. Irrational hope sinks to the pit of his stomach and wallows in dismay.

 

Sherlock should have known better.

 

The four poster was empty, the Egyptian sheets as flat as when his brother left them, and the black silk robe lay waiting at the foot of the bed for a master who never came home. He should leave. There is only one to two places unexplored and he doubts his brother would be so lame as to hide in the en suite bathroom or his walk-in closet for that matter.

 

He should leave, yet didn’t know where to go. He had no plan, only a compulsion. Now that he saw it through, the usual satisfaction left him feeling…lost. Was this what Mycroft felt on the many occasions when Sherlock disappeared? This dread that latches on one’s state of mind and leeches it…empty?

 

He couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t think pass the notion that his ‘smarter than thou’ brother had failed and is the one currently in trouble. What good can Sherlock do if Mycroft was bested by this enemy? What if he makes the same mistake? What will happen to… He couldn’t finish the thought. In fact, he refuse to entertain it.

 

He should really leave, yet finds himself sitting down next to the discarded robe. The plush mattress sinks under his weight and his cold stiff fingers encounter the silky fabric. Unbidden hands grasp it like a lifeline and he buries his nose within its folds. Like a hit of cocaine, Mycroft’s familiar scent scorch his senses and Sherlock fell back on the bed welcoming it, to willingly drown in the sensation.


	5. Par for the Course

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the brevity. Apparently I can only write in spurts. Better to post some than none, I suppose. Happy holidays readers!

The following morning, immediately after dropping Rosie off at the daycare center, John Watson finds his path impeded upon by two men dressed in head-to-toe black. Such encounters were never good and had John slept a full wink last night, his battle honed reflexes may have serve him better. He blames this freely on Sherlock of course for leaving in such a state and failing to return back to the flat. To add insult to injury, John doesn’t even flinch when one of them pulled something out from their inner breast pocket. The fact that it was an M.O.D. badge doesn’t make him any less wary especially when they haul him away like some street thug on a riot.

 

 

His attempt to garner any information from his stone-faced abductors failed spectacularly and has John resigned to take consolation in a strong suspicion that this was clearly Mycroft related. After all, there’s no such thing as coincidences according to Sherlock. And most likely, since they were unable to find the hat detective himself, the _new_ British Government grabbed the next best thing to lure the man out per usual. That was a rather depressing thought.

 

 

From there, John was taken to an obscure War Office building this time around. The duo clips a visitor badge on his lapel without consent then deposits him none too gently outside a set of unlabeled doors. Finally left to his own vices or, as much as the surveillance cameras placed at every corner wall would permit that is, concede defeat. It would seem his lot in life post Afghanistan is to suffer the whims of the Holmes brothers. John shakes his head once then releases a huff in resignation before pulling one of the doors open and into a darken room with a briefing already underway.

 

 

Upon receiving a few disapproving looks from the audience lining the U shaped conference table whose attention was stolen from the slides on the projector in front, John ducks his head in apology to no one in particular and quickly searches for any open spot to sit down. Most of those present were professionally dressed and comported themselves with grave demeanors as the speaker drone on about the profile of each person brought up with matching grainy surveillance footage. He would have felt more than a mild case of awkwardness had he not caught one familiar face amongst the sea of strangers. Hiding way in the back wall amongst a few nondescript stragglers, DI Gregory Lestrade looks just as confused being there as John does. His appearance was noticed immediately by the other and the DI returns a relieved grin of his own afore waving John over to an empty seat next to him.

 

 

As soon as John plops down, Greg whispers rather loudly, “What the bloody hell is going on? None of the blokes who abducted me would say anything.”

 

This time, along with a few disapproving glares some even scooted their seats further away from the pair. Greg grimaces and makes a concentrated effort to speak as closely to John’s left ear as possible. The smell of baked beans and breakfast sausages assaults his nostrils but it wasn’t as disturbing as the moist breath against his neck. Inwardly he cringes at both and wants to end the distance as quickly as possible. Thus he declares softly after an uncomfortable throat clear, “Sherlock,” and pulls away hoping that singular reference was explanation enough. It was, thankfully.

 

 

“Figures,” Greg grumbles under his breath and slouches back in his seat. Altogether resign now to get whatever this shenanigan was over with and return to the landlady case. In spite of the consulting detective’s help, the DI still had to show due diligence by interviewing all the tenants to rule them out as suspects. Solving the case was a piece of cake, although going through the procedurals in order to present the Crown Prosecutor a slam-dunk case can be quite tedious. He envied Sherlock’s solve-and-dash routine sometimes.

 

 

Somewhere between the third and fifth profile, both Greg and John took the opportunity to text their work about the delay only to exhibit equal bewilderment when they receive their reply one after the other. John notices Greg’s mirrored expression first and snorts. At the sound, Greg raises his head in wonder and was presented with a phone screen to his face.

 

 

On it, the text reads, _‘Don’t bother. Some M.O.D. personnel called and said you’re excused for active duty. Didn’t know you were serving again. If you need help with Rosie, let me know. –Sarah’._

 

 

Greg let out a snort of his own and flashes John his phone. _‘Chief said you’re on loan for special assignment. So thanks for all the extra paperwork. You owe me. –Donavan.’_

 

 

“Is she always this salty in the morning?” John whispers quietly after reading the sign-off.

 

 

Greg shrugs one shoulder then drawls quietly, “More or less… every day.”

 

 

He then gestures to the place in general and whispers in a more serious manner, “So what’s this all about? Sherlock’s working on a case for the M.O.D. now?”

 

Unsure how much to share, John averts his gaze, folds his arms, and mimics Greg’s drawl, “Something like that… more or less.”

 

 

The responding frown has John quickly adding, “Have you seen him?”

 

 

“Who? Sherlock?” said Greg.

 

 

John quirks his brow as if to say, _who else?_

 

 

“Naw,” the D.I. shakes his head and slouches down on his seat, “after pulling an all-nighter interviewing the tenants, I got nabbed at the coffee cart this morning. Got a free coffee out of it.”

 

 

Seeing John’s confusion, Greg leans in as if to share a secret, “Grabbed me right when Robbie handed me a cuppa. Had no time to pay.”

 

 

Then the D.I. leans back with a wide smirk plastered on his face.

 

 

 _And not an ounce of remorse over it,_ John thought and shakes his head in good humor before trying his best to pay attention to what he was literally pulled into. The task was easier said than done however. Less than ten minutes in, the doctor finds himself checking his wristwatch for the umpteen time. He half expected Sherlock to burst right in and declare the whole mystery solved or Sherlock be dragged in kicking and screaming.

 

 

Neither of those occur unfortunately. Instead, he suffered the countless faces, mostly of Mid-Eastern descent, be plastered on the screen and was highlighted for their few minutes of infamy. John shakes his head. He never quite understood the procedural of group profiling so early on. Having worked with Sherlock throughout the years, the detective never attaches a face unless there was evidence connecting them to the crime in one fashion or other. A quick glance at Greg’s disapproving frown confirms their shared view. If Sherlock was here, his friend would have no qualm shouting it was a waste of time. However more minutes of this, John might be desperate enough to employ such a tactic just to be thrown out of his misery.

 

 

When the door does burst open, John spits out, “Oh, thank God!” in relief.

 

 

Oddly enough, the words came out in a chorus. He turns and shares a shit eating grin with Greg for the interruption. Only it wasn’t who they thought it was.

 

 

In spite of the dimness of the room, Lady Smallwood stood out as a beacon with her white suit-skirt combo and nigh a hair out of place from her chignon. She waltzes right in with a small entourage trailing behind her as she stood front and center. The projector blearing a screenshot of the aftermath of a terrorist attack onto her clothing like so much graffiti. She flinches from the harsh lighting in distaste.

 

When someone finally turned on the lights, both Greg and John bristles in unison upon recognizing the men-in-black duo. John didn’t know what to make of the tall, slouching fellow wearing a dark track suit with his hood up and hands tucked in his pockets of all things and quickly skims away from him to find relief in seeing Mycroft’s PA, Anthea with a laptop in hand ending the unusual procession.

 

A loud snort follow by an amused chortle by his neighbor caught John’s attention and he turns to Greg for enlightenment. When the D.I. coughs behind his hand and raise a brow pointedly. John returns his attention back to the front and squints his eyes in scrutiny. It took a moment, but the discovery wasn’t worth the headache. John should have recognize that stick-up-his-arse stance by now.

 

Sherlock, that prat, was up to something.

 

Soon enough, John’s slow grin turns feral when the hood drops dramatically to reveal his friend’s chilling scowl.


End file.
